Sonata: 'Secondhand' in A Minor
by Henrietta 'Scarlet' Saintclair
Summary: AU-YxW. "Inspiration comes from the most unexpected." Yuuri couldn't believe he was praying that sentence was true, hard. Because his Muse was surely unexpected, and irreplaceable. No other Muse was his fire tongued, oil stained personification of music.
1. Prelude in C Major

_**'Secondhand' in A Minor**_

**Author's Notes:**

**This is a flash of inspiration that was too overwhelming for simply a flash. It all dawned right on me in a single second: plot, characters, positions, etc. A gift from Heaven, LOL. Though I did ponder about switching Yuuri and Wolfram's positions, I finally decided to leave them be. So…here goes my first fic! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kyou Kara Maou!**

XXX

-1-

_Prelude in C Major_

_By Shibuya Yuuri_

--

I knew I was not supposed to complain, but everybody had some breaking point, where eventually they could not take it anymore and just snap, like a rubber band that had been stretched too far for too long a time.

In my case, the major factor was the press. And hordes of screaming fans. And stupid producers. And music-unappreciative managers. But the press played the main role here. They followed me everywhere, jotting down or snapping pictures of my every move. One mistake and the next day the whole country would find out. It was stressing. It was mind-boggling. It was a hell of a lot of a pressure, one that I could not take out of my back. I had to calculate my every breath, my every twitch. No wonder I went mad, really!

I snapped. It was natural. And I did it just like what I did whenever I was angry or burdened: I stopped creating music.

I did not even notice it happening. The snap came gradually that I did not realize it right away. Stress had been my constant companion for weeks, therefore I did not spot the new intruder in my mind until it spotted my core.

It was nearly summer vacation, but vacation never existed for me, Shibuya Yuuri, a nineteen-year-old boy, the pop star, the country's girls' idol (or at least that was what my manager told me). Summer was at the front door and I was stuck at an orphanage in front of twenty-seven pairs of curious little eyes, waiting for my music to start. So much for a charity visit. My manager never cared for anything but my image and the money I was bringing him.

I picked out my trusted guitar from its black case, sitting it on my lap. The light streaming from the dirty windows were just enough to give me a clear view of everyone's expression. I smiled at them awkwardly, before tapping my foot with the rhythm and began to strum, singing along with the melody.

I sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', in which twenty-seven eager voices immediately joined in. And then I strummed an improvisation of 'Happy Birthday' to impress them. They enthusiastically sang along with the melody, and I could not help but laugh and join them too. It was happy, it was perfect, and my manager was busy telling the pile of press right outside the windows and door to keep taking my pictures.

We sang some more, this time singing my songs. It surprised me how they knew my songs quite well. They followed my vocal without any hesitation, and in some parts I swore they did better than me. I thought that the visit was going to be a clean, spotless one.

But when I began the first notes of one of my pure instrumental pieces, Prelude for the Lady, the trouble started.

My fingers wouldn't move. They stopped right after the fourth note, and I froze on my spot. And because I halted, the music came to an abrupt halt too. The room was silent, and confused stares were all I got from the scene in front of me.

I tried to pluck the strings again, and I knew I had made a sound. I had to, for the strings vibrated. But I could not recognize the notes; they might as well be soundless to me.

More confused glares. The camera flashes from the press stopped, and my manager was glaring at me in annoyance and curiosity from the nearest window. I did not return his look. Instead, I looked at my guitar, my best friend for seven years.

What I saw was a stranger.

That was my breaking point. I quickly inserted the guitar back into its case, shouldered it, and swiftly left before the cameras began clicking, the children began questioning, and the manager began scolding.

By the time they did all of those, I was already in my car. By the time they managed to regain what was left of their mind and tried to chase me, I was pulling out of the parking lot. And by the time they arrived at the parking lot…

I was two miles away from Fowl's Institution for Orphans and Neglected Children.

X

Murata Ken lived in Larkshire, a small, remote village in southern England. By the time I parked in front of his humble-looking house in a humble-looking street in a humble-looking neighbourhood, all I had with me was a cap on my head, a pair of mirrored sunglasses, my wallet (containing two hundred and fifty-two pounds, some pennies, visas, and credit cards), my guitar, and a new backpack containing spare clothes, spare underclothes, a towel, and some toiletries (the backpack and whatever it contained were all bought at whatever supermarket I passed on my way to Larkshire). Not exactly the perfect condition for travelling, but I could not complain.

I walked up to his porch, admiring his small, neatly arranged garden as I did so. The houses along the street were separated from each other by small bits of garden. I could plainly see that Murata had minded his bit very well indeed.

I pressed the bell, taking off the sunglasses and tucking them into my jacket's inside pocket. I didn't dare to take my cap off, however. If I had met a fan there, I would have been doomed.

Murata answered the door twenty seconds after the bell rang. I watched tensely as the white-painted piece of wood swung open, revealing the figure of my best friend during secondary school. My first impression was how the guy had not changed at all, not even after all those years.

His eyes widened behind his spectacles, and said spectacles dropped a few centimetres down his nose. "Shibuya?" he exclaimed, eyes comparable to saucers. "Shibuya Yuuri? For God's sake! Last time I saw you, you were on the telly, singing some strange songs I could not understand and looking as rich as a mint!"

I smiled awkwardly, praying that his reaction would not go further than that. I did not escape a hell of press and fans (and a manager) in London only to meet another in my escape spot. "Hi, Murata," I greeted him softly. "Mind if I come in?"

To my relief, Murata laughed, slapped my back fondly, and opened the door wider, allowing me entrance. "Come on in," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Before one of your fans sees you here. I don't want to be unable to get out of my own house."

I entered into a narrow but snug area of the living room. Murata had the walls painted with soft yellow, barely distinguishable from white. The carpet beneath my Keds was soft and chocolate and warm looking. Several plump couches were arranged in the middle of the room, facing a 61" telly. I whistled. The huge screen looked impressive, despite clashing poorly with the snug-and-small aura the place permeated.

"Nice telly," I commented.

He grinned proudly; walking up to the telly and tapping it like his own son. "This is my darling," he joked. "Took me a long time to save up enough money to buy it. But it was worth the money and effort." He gestured at the couches, before flopping down on one of them. "Take a seat, Shibuya."

Thanking him, I put my backpack on the floor and took the one facing my host. There were not many decorations in the room. A small table stood in one corner, holding two picture frames and a wireless. A huge painting, depicting a landscape of snowy mountains, adorned the wall next to the door. A calendar hung beside the telly. Simple yet comfortable. Just like the Murata I knew.

"You have a nice house," I said, telling the truth. "I wish I had one like yours."

Murata snorted. "You've got your penthouse in the middle of London. What I would not give for a trade."

I shook my head forlornly. "Nah, my house is not even half as nice as yours. I rarely sleep in it, much less live in it. Too…." I struggled to find the right word. "Luxurious. And…cold."

Murata's eyes glinted beneath his spectacles. "You have all the money, why not just buy one that suits you?"

With all honesty, his words surprised me. It was something that I would never expect Murata to say, something that suddenly reminded me those seven years was a long time ago, and that it was impossible to pass so much time without being altered in any way. Murata had to have changed, and the thought made me bitter. My previous thoughts were parts of a daydream, surely. "You've changed a lot," I said quietly, my voice audibly strained. "You…were supposed to know that I would never…oh, throw away money like that. Even though I am a pop star now, I am not that careless, not that stupid, Murata. And…I thought you knew that."

He shrugged the same shrug I used to see everyday in secondary school. "I thought I did," he admitted, his tone serious and unsympathetic. "But you failed me, Shibuya. Failed me when you stopped all contacts between us the day you were appointed for a recording with the famous Dai Shimaron Record. You failed me. You failed your parents too." He chuckled upon the expression on my face, and I could not do anything to stop him. "Oh, don't you dare to try to argue. I know. I watched and looked after them as a son, replacing your previous role, Shibuya. Why should you care about them? You were a new pop star at that time. Busy making money from your debut, as what you said. No wonder Shori decided to severe all connections with you. For God's sake, Shibuya…. You did not even come to your own parents' burial!"

The sudden fortissimo in his voice caused me to quiver. Regret and denial dumped all over me in a single second. "I was at a concert!" I replied hotly. "I could not cancel the concert! I was a newbie, and image is extremely important for a newbie!"

Short, bark-like laughs dropped from between Murata's lips, and I shuddered at how strange, how unfamiliar he sounded. True, I had not contacted him for three years, but I was so busy, and busy people had to be amended, right? My parents would have wanted the same…. They would have not wanted me to miss that concert….

"You don't understand." I was startled by how old Murata suddenly sounded, as if his soul had been worn out by time in the span of our conversation. "You don't understand, Shibuya," he whispered, shaking his head.

"I understand!" I retorted, although my cheeks were flaming red due to the fact that my words were one big lie. Since when did I start sounding like my manager?

"Image, huh?" Murata smirked, and his smile was cold and did not reach his eyes. He stood up with one fluid motion, before taking a ring of keys from his trousers' pocket. "Come on, Shibuya," he said, quietly, calmer than before. "You have to learn from somebody about image. About loyalty, pride, and dignity. Oh, and about family. You can stay in this house as long as you want, but I have to warn you: I do not exactly welcome the Shibuya Yuuri right now. Though I'll be glad to welcome the old one." He let out a wry chuckle, and I could think of nothing to reply him with.

He walked out of the house, and I followed him suit, despite the simmering anger and shame still lurking in my core. "Where are we going?" I questioned suspiciously as Murata hopped into his own car: a Ford Escape.

He did not look at me as he answered, "To Shin Makoku Secondhand Car Garage. Put on your sunglasses and just get inside, Shibuya."

Never before I had seen that resolved look on Murata's face.

XXX

**Constructive reviews would be very much appreciated.**

XXX

_Teaser:_

-2-

_Crescendo_

He was stained with oil and dirt, and he smelled like cars and exhaust fumes. Yuuri would have wrinkled his nose and attempted a polite yet awkward conversation with the boy, except for the fact that the black case the boy was holding piqued Yuuri's interest. The black-haired pop star immediately leaned towards the mysterious object, much to the other boy's apparent annoyance and discomfort.

"A violin…," Yuuri whispered, mostly in awe and some parts of disbelief. "That means…. That means you were the one I heard just now! The one who played Elgar's 'Salute d'Amour'!"

The blonde boy stared at him for several seconds, before turning his nose up into the air with what seemed to be distaste. "So what?" he scoffed, folding his arms across his chest defiantly. "Back off, wimp! You're blocking my way!"

XXX

_Scarlet_


	2. Crescendo

_**'Secondhand' in A Minor**_

**Author's Notes:**

**Thank you for all your reviews! I was so glad by the reception of this story. Couldn't say I was not relieved, LOL. Here goes the second chapter, and I hope it is better than the previous one.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own KKM!**

XXX

-2-

_Crescendo_

--

_"If home is where the heart is,_

_Then I guess I am more homeless_

_Than the beggars you see_

_Loitering on the streets, begging and pleading_

_For the sky to save them_

_I am one of them_

_I am one of them"_

_'One of Them' – Shibuya Yuuri's third single_

--

Red dust. It wound its way up his Keds, around his jeans-clad legs, his torso, and finally up to his nose. Shibuya Yuuri sneezed. The air was much, much dustier than what he had expected of countryside. In fact, he doubted the scene in front of him was suitable for the end of a small, lush English village at all. A mini-desert while he just left the woods? What could be stranger than that?

He took off his sunglasses and looked up, only to see several acres of red fields, dried soil created out of mounds of red sand, fenced up with rotting wood panels. What seemed to be a stout, three-storeys office stood in the middle of the field, and around the weather-worn building were cars, so old that Yuuri did not even knew some of them existed, barely distinguishable from the soil due to the layer of sand atop them.

Yuuri approached the nearest fence, examining the faded nameplate on one side of a battered iron gate. It read 'Shin Makoku'.

"What's this place?" he questioned, looking around in confusion and surprise.

Murata locked the doors of his car, before walking up to Yuuri with slow, relaxed steps. "A second hand car garage," he replied, casting a long glance around. "I have some real friends here."

Ignoring the implicit insult placed behind the casual words, Yuuri asked, his jaw hardening, "Why did you bring me here?"

Murata shrugged, before pushing the gate open and walking into the garage area. His feet kicked up dust, and Yuuri tried his best not to inhale the auburn motes. "I've told you, you have to learn."

"You can't teach me anything, Murata."

Quiet laughter tumbled out from Murata's throat, and the pale boy looked up at the pristine blue canopy of sky above. "I'm not the one who's going to teach you, Shibuya," he said, not even turning around to face Yuuri. "I'm too corrupted by this world already. Just like you. We can never learn from each other."

Shaking his head, this time in anger and despair, Yuuri growled, "Damn it! Talk straight, Murata!"

Murata did turn around upon his sentence, yet the look the eyes behind the spectacles were sending was one of disgust and weariness. Yuuri's muscles immediately stiffened, like a prey waiting for the predator to pounce. Much to his surprise, Murata simply turned his back on him and started walking again towards the office. "Just wait there, Shibuya."

And he was gone; a small speck in the whirling red sandstorm, and Yuuri suddenly feared he would never see him again.

--

His fingers were black.

Wolfram von Bielefeld leaned his back against a Fiesta, trying not to think about what the layer of dust on that car would do to his already dirtied white shirt. The sun was glaring right onto his upturned face, yet he could not care less. Work was hard that day. A VW with a no longer running engines just turned up in the morning, and Gwendal von Voltaire, the manager of Shin Makoku Secondhand Car Garage, had given clear instructions to Wolfram about how he wanted to see the VW running as smooth as a baby before nightfall. Wolfram had been working on the VW for six hours straight, and had not made the progress he had expected.

Wolfram raised a hand to shield his face from the sunlight, trying to stare at the horizon before him: the wooden fences of Shin Makoku, a Ford Escape belonging to Murata, and a stranger leaning on the fence next to the car. He squinted, trying to see past his fingers and focus on the stranger. However, since he couldn't, he looked at his fingers instead.

They were black. But he had expected that. Oil and grease had been staining them nearly 24/7. But he could not really complain, especially since his work as a car mechanic helped to bring food onto the table for his family.

That did not mean that he was not disappointed.

He had tried everything, every single way to get those stains out of his fingers and nails. His attempts had been met with failures. The oil was a badge of shame: a grease monkey would always be one forever. No matter how hard Wolfram tried to wash the dark smudges out of his skin, it would never come off. And the colour stayed there, haunting him whenever he reached out to touch something.

Especially, whenever he played his violin.

He had tried to ignore the facts, but, honestly, who had seen a violinist with oil-stained fingers?

Placing both his palms over his eyes, he recalled the days where his fingers were immaculate. Slender limbs, ivory skin, clear nails. Now his joints were worn down by mechanical work; his skin was tainted by heavy oil; and his nails were stained by grease. Those days were fading fast, and sometimes Wolfram even thought that they were just his fantasies. He had always been a car mechanic. Wolfram the violinist was a stranger, someone he aspired yet would never be.

Someone flopped on the sandy ground next to him, and he took his palms off his face. The sight of dark hair and spectacles distracted him from his previous thoughts, and Wolfram nodded with all hospitality he could muster with his current mood. "Murata."

Murata grinned the grin Wolfram had grown irritated of, before asking quietly, "Nasty day, Bielefeld?"

Wolfram scowled. Despite being used already to Murata's antics; that did not necessarily mean he liked his friend's attitude. "You wouldn't imagine it," he mumbled, wrapping his thin, underfed arms around his knees. When was the last time he saw those arms supple and muscled instead of overworked and anorexic?

"Me too," Murata said, with a tone that contradicted his words. Yet Wolfram knew better: when Murata said it, he meant it. "See that guy over there?"

Glancing up, Wolfram stared at the stranger at the horizon, a small figure against the red desert. "Yeah. What's with him?"

"Do you know the name Shibuya Yuuri?"

A frown settled on Wolfram's dirt-streaked forehead. "Mm. That Japanese-born pop star. What has he got to do with that stranger?"

Murata's dark eyes wavered beneath his spectacles, and a wry grin formed on the boy's dried lips. "He is Shibuya Yuuri."

"Uh-huh," Wolfram replied, brushing his blonde locks from his eyes, not quite convinced. "So…you know a pop star. Big deal. What has it got to do with me?"

Murata hugged his knees closer to his body, before waving to the stranger cheerfully. The stranger looked up, and then waved back, although with certain hesitation in the movement. "Maybe you could be friends with him," he said slowly. Upon seeing Wolfram's unamused look, he chuckled and quickly amended. "Or…perhaps not. You know what, he just dropped by my house this morning after two years of no contacts."

"Why?" The simple word left Wolfram's mouth in a dry, emotionless tone.

Murata shrugged. "I guess the press has been too much lately, and he is escaping temporarily. I guess…he just remembered me when he thought of the word 'refuge'." A humourless chuckle ensued from Murata's throat, yet Wolfram did not respond. "You know what? We used to be best friends. His parents adopted me when my parents died; they were best friends, and I was just three-year-old at that time. I thought of him as my true sibling. When Shibuya and I were five, his family moved to London. Those were the happy times. Then Shibuya got a contract with Dai Shimaron Records, and he began to act like a jerk. He did not even attend his own parents' burial."

Surprised, Wolfram asked in impulse, "That bad?"

"Yeah," replied Murata, his eyes forlorn. "Then I moved here, and had been hearing nothing of him since. Today I met him again, and I realized how he has changed. A lot. Shibuya Yuuri is now a pop star, no longer the Shibuya Yuuri I used to know. He even no longer contradicts me for calling him by his last name."

Wolfram snorted, green eyes blazing due to Murata's story. "Let him be," he said, tone flat and decisive. "You could have refused to let him into your house, you know."

Upon hearing this sentence, Murata laughed, his laugh low and sombre. "Oh well," he sighed. "I've said enough. May I ask you a favour, Wolfram?"

His reply was a scrunched-up face and a disagreeing expression. "No," Wolfram refused hotly, the fire on his words enough to flambé Murata straight on that spot. "Whenever you call me by my first name, your favours are not exactly pleasant to the executor of those so-called favours."

Murata grinned a grin that unlike a Cheshire cat's, and Wolfram immediately inched away from him. "Don't worry," he said, in a tone that was meant to be assuring. "This favour is quite simple." With that, Murata pulled up a black violin case from the ground next to him, previously hidden from Wolfram's eyes. "Would you please play a song for me?"

Taking the case into his hands, eyes staring in incredulity, Wolfram questioned, his voice high and piercing, "Why would I?"

"Well, of course because the Larkshire Youth Music Festival is coming up next month, and you have to practice if you want to win the 500 pounds prize!" Murata exclaimed, his expression one displaying shock and utter disbelief. "Is that not enough reason? Besides," he added, his voice a mysterious whisper, "you look so down. Go and cheer yourself up. Who knows? You might also cheer me up in the process."

Wolfram's eyes clearly shouted that he thought Murata was being more than a bit of lunatic, but, with the heaviest sigh of sighs and some grumblings, he complied, wiping his hands on his washed out jeans before touching the case, as if the action might remove the oil stains from his bruised fingers.

His hands unclasped the lock of the case deftly, and then, with years of practice, neatly unzipped the zipper, before finally opening the lid of the case. His skinny, ruined digits pushed aside the green velvet blanket, revealing the smooth surface of the instrument beneath it. He took it up into his hands, grazing the strings as he did so.

Putting his violin beneath his shoulder and chin, Wolfram took up the bow and tightened up the strands of the hair. Murata was watching his every move closely; however, Wolfram was not going to be put off by a stare. His long fingers wrapped around the neck of the violin, gripping the wood tightly. The bow was placed next to the bridge, a little bit further from Wolfram, the springy hair polished and ready to strike the strings.

"What piece?" muttered Wolfram, his eyes concentrated upon the strings instead of Murata.

"Elgar," Murata sighed, leaning onto the Fiesta, copying Wolfram's position. "Salute d'Amour."

Upon hearing the choice, Wolfram smirked, unable to hide the pride and amusement he was feeling. "Good choice," he whispered, before letting the music flow out from his work-chafed, oil-stained fingers.

--

As he leaned onto the wooden fence, his eyes staring at the depth of the woods yards away from where he stood, Yuuri suddenly remembered a theory Murata once told him about music.

"You see," said the fourteen-year-old Murata, his voice serene as he folded his arms on the Shibuyas' dining table, "people always say that inspiration comes from nowhere. But I think certain things can spark ideas from people. It can be a sensation, an emotion, an event, a condition, a book, a movie, a sight, even a type of sound." Here he paused, inhaling a deep breath as Yuuri watched him, curious of what the next sentence might be. "Or it can be a person."

A Muse.

Yuuri had not found his Muse, and probably it was the reason why he kept losing ideas so often, infuriating his manager too many times. Even top-of-the-chart pop stars had deadlines, and Yuuri was one who always had troubles in meeting them.

Yet when the sound vibrated the air around him, reaching his ears, Yuuri thought his brain turned off for a second due to the shock. He recognized the notes, recognized the piece, but he simply could not fathom the sound, the core of the music the wind had presented before him. It was something strange, something new, something he had never experienced before. Of course he had had his share of favourite singers and bands, but no sound had managed to stun him, no sound had managed to strike that chord within him, to inspire and lit up his mind so easily like a bulb. It was inspiration; it was music; and it was his Muse.

He tapped his feet along with the beat, closing his eyes, straining his ears to hear the best of the music. He had often heard Salute d'Amour, even from famous violinists' performances. But this was totally different, a thing that he somehow knew only he could fully appreciate, something his ears and only his cherished.

His Muse. God, he loved thinking those two words. Had he finally found it?

The violinist executed a difficult improvisation of a trill, the effect of it enhanced by the dimly whistling wind. Yuuri's mind vibrated along with it. Notes, melodies, and dynamics flooded his brain. 'This can be a new song,' he thought, barely logical. 'What scale? What scale should I use?'

However, before he managed to complete arranging the notes inside his head, the music slowly entered a soft, romantic decrescendo, dwindling quietly into an abrupt silence. Leaving Yuuri to find himself in shambles, trying to recollect his sanity while in the same time trying to conceal his disappointment. He looked around, and, confirmed that nobody was around to witness his 'little moment of less dosage of sanity', did not spend any more time but to cuss and groan under his breath.

His inspiration was incomplete, and Yuuri felt that he had the right to curse the fact that Salute d'Amour was not long enough to satisfy his needs.

Yuuri knew that there was no other option. His fate was sealed when he knew that he had found his Muse. And it was either to find his Muse or go crazy.

He doubted that his fans would adore crazy pop stars.

Probably that was the reason why he found his own body walking through the iron gate and dashing through the red desert of auburn flames.

--

"Wonderful…," Murata breathed, eyes as wide as saucers. Even as he said that word aloud, Wolfram was already packing back his violin, ensuring that no dust was left on the caramel surface of the wood.

"Yeah, yeah," the blonde grumbled, never looking at his companion. "Tell Gwendal that I'll finish the VW he requested soon. I'm going to the village to take my tea break."

Murata nodded, thanking Wolfram before walking back towards the office. Wolfram ignored him, simply standing up and picking up his violin case. He dusted off the red sand from the black cover, before dusting his own jeans and shirt as much as he could.

He began to make his way through the jungle of cars, but he barely passed two cars when he came face to face with a familiar face he had never met before, a face he had once thought suited only for stages and tellies. But he could not mistake that face, that lightly tanned skin, that Asian complexion; but most of all, those wide, onyx eyes. Wolfram stopped, mostly due to the surprise, mostly because he recalled Murata's words about the person standing in front of him.

To say that Wolfram von Bielefeld was feeling bitter and unamused in front of Shibuya Yuuri was a serious understatement.

--

He was stained with oil and dirt, and he smelled like cars and exhaust fumes. Yuuri would have wrinkled his nose and attempted a polite yet awkward conversation with the boy, except for the fact that the black case the boy was holding piqued Yuuri's interest. The black-haired pop star immediately leaned towards the mysterious object, much to the other boy's apparent annoyance and discomfort.

"A violin…," Yuuri whispered, mostly in awe and some parts of disbelief, still panting due to his previous mad dash of zigzagging through mazes of second-hand cars. "That means…. That means you were the one I heard just now! The one who played Elgar's 'Salute d'Amour'!"

The blonde boy stared at him for several seconds, before turning his nose up into the air with what seemed to be distaste. "So what?" he scoffed, folding his arms across his chest defiantly. "Back off, wimp! You're blocking my way!"

Yuuri's jaws hardened. The tone was something he did not expect, the words more so, but the voice…. The voice sounded right. And he could not even tell why. 'A minor. Oh God, the new song will be in the A minor scale. It suits his voice….' The wimp part was admittedly quite disconcerting, but Yuuri's subconscious mind brushed it off as nothing.

"It was beautiful," said Yuuri, still breathless, trying to pour all of the sensations he had felt while listening to the unknown boy's playing. "Your playing was extraordinary. It was so beautiful."

Their surrounding was quite for a moment, until the blonde boy coldly spoke up. "I was not playing for you. I don't care whatever you think."

Yuuri knew that some musicians did not care about people's acceptance of their music, that all what mattered to them was expressing the sound within their soul. And he guessed that the boy standing defiantly in front of him was that type of musician. "But I still admire it," he said, smiling, trying his best to make a good impression. He extended a hand, a friendly gesture. "Hi. My name is Shibuya Yuuri."

The boy stared at the offered gesture, sharp emerald eyes scrutinizing Yuuri's guitar-calloused fingers. Then he raised his own hand, which, to Yuuri's utmost surprise, was nothing like what he imagined of his Muse's hand. Dirty fingernails, blackened fingers that looked like soot…. To say that Yuuri was disappointed was an understatement, and unfortunately his face screamed just so.

As if guessing the thoughts running inside Yuuri's head, the blonde scowled and slapped his palm onto Yuuri's causing the latter to wince in shock and pain. His palm stung, and he held it as he stared in astonishment at the blonde stranger. Those green, green eyes had transformed into green flames, and it took all of Yuuri's self-restraint not to step backwards and run like the little boy he once had been.

"Sorry if my hand disgusts you, pop star," the blonde growled, his stare burning, his voice low and dangerous. "But I am, as what you see, is a car mechanic. So back off!"

The intensity of the voice was interesting, for it surpassed Yuuri's highest expectation of the frail, skin-and-bone-only boy. The voice had an emotional edge to it, explosions of feelings that Yuuri would never expect a body of such to contain. Yuuri would have loved to hang out and try to coax more flashes of emotions into those emerald depths, if only the threat had not sounded too audible. He took a step backward, wary, attempting to linger.

Something seemed to snap in the blonde's eyes, and a thin arm lashed out, sending a violin case knocking out the air off Yuuri's lungs in a lurching movement. Yuuri groaned, tottering backwards until he hit the body of a run-down Volvo. The boy in front of him simply stared, before shouldering his violin and walking away, his fragile figure enveloped in billowing red sand.

And Yuuri, simmering with disappointment, anger, and indignation, could do nothing but watch as his supposed-to-be Muse left him in the desolate second-hand car garage.

XXX

**Well, this chapter is kinda longer than what I intended it to be. Hope you like it. If you detect OOC-ness, faults, or anything wrong with the story, don't hesitate to tell me! I appreciate positive reviews, but I need constructive reviews. Again, thanks a lot for reading!**

XXX

Teaser:

-3-

_'Muse' in E Minor_

_by Shibuya Yuuri_

Those dark green eyes, alive and dancing with emotions. I needed all restraint I possessed in order to stop myself from getting a piece of paper and instantly immortalize Wolfram into notes, into a melody I knew would have been fitting for him. A minor. I had been thinking of that scale ever since I met him, ever since I heard his sound.

Who knew how much emotion that bony joints hid from the world? Wolfram was explosive, violent, yet there was something intriguing beneath all those unnecessary flames. I would have gladly found out, but he was just a car mechanic, not a violinist at all. He was someone not even supposed to belong to the irrational, aesthetical field of music. He was a car mechanic, a simpleton whose life was directed towards setting food on the table.

He was not the person I expected him to be when I heard him play that wretched Salute d'Amour.

My Muse would never be him.

XXX

_Scarlet_


	3. Muse in E Minor

_**'Secondhand' in A Minor**_

**Author's Notes:**

**Here goes the third chapter. I hope I have improved my writing**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kyou Kara Maou**

XXX

-3-

_'Muse' in E Minor_

_by Shibuya Yuuri_

XXX

_"Even when the world has gone to shambles_

_And the sky has been left in crumbles_

_Upon this very ground, upon this very land_

_Hurt but unwavering, I'll still stand"_

_'Stand' – Wolfram von Bielefeld's original song_

--

Murata's steps were rather slow and unhurried as he approached me, the late afternoon sunlight reflecting off his spectacles. I knew that he was a relaxed, nothing-can-hurry-me type, but I could not resist the urge to growl and urge him to go faster. So I growled, a rare thing to do, trying to make it low and impressive (although it came out more like a falsetto warble).

"What were you doing, Shibuya?" he called out, his hands stuffed deep in his trousers' pockets. "You sounded like a badly wounded toad back then."

I glared at him, desperately massaging my left chest, where the damned violin case had found its mark. "My chest hurts like hell," I informed him, wishing that I could shoot daggers with my eyes.

Murata whistled in what seemed to be amusement, before stopping a few feet away from the car I was leaning on. His stare unnerved me, and I gulped.

However, when he spoke, he sounded calm, the real calm, not the calm before the storm I had acknowledged earlier. "What happened?" he asked.

I shrugged, recalling the previous events with a bitter taste in my mouth. "A strange blonde appeared and hit me with his violin case," I muttered, eyes scanning the horizon. Who knew, I might see the fake Muse again.

My sentence seemed to intrigue him, because he leaned forward and questioned, "Oh? A blonde? Wearing a white shirt?"

I shrugged. I didn't really notice; I was focusing on the boy's sound. "White, perhaps…. Streaked red, though. Could have been the dust," I replied hesitantly. "I tried to make a civilized conversation with him, but he yelled at me." I scrunched up my face. "He's a brat."

"Many people used to say so," Murata said rather solemnly, and I wondered about the 'used to' part. "His name is Wolfram von Bielefeld. He is a friend of mine."

I was sure my eyes were comparable to dinner plates. "Your friend?!" I managed to choke out. If disbelief had been a crime, I would have been public enemy number one. "That was your friend?"

Murata rubbed his chin, as if deep in thought. "He will deny if you ask about that, but I'm pretty sure we're in conversational terms, at the very least."

"He was absurdly impolite," I grumbled, pacing around, kicking up some dust just for the sake of doing something. "I mean, I haven't done anything wrong at all to him, right? I was just complimenting his Salute d'Amour, and then he suddenly exploded." Yes, like a firework. A firework with ruined fingers, Muse-like sound, a name that I probably could not even spell, and a temper to match a dragon with an upset stomach.

"Oh?" Murata suddenly piped up, his eyebrows raised, the perfect portrayal of curiosity and amusement. I knew that he would have been a successful actor if he had wanted to (although his face might not gain him a lot of female fans…). He acted so often, too often, that he was a true professional at the heart. "Have you heard his performance?"

Immediately, the memory of the wispy, wind-whispered Salute d'Amour returned with full force. If I had not been leaning onto a car, I would have been lying on the ground and trying to remember my name. "Salute d'Amour," I sighed, cradling my suddenly aching head in both palms. "Have you?"

Murata nodded, before piping up another question, "What do you think?"

"Wonderful," I said, telling the truth. "Amazing. Beautiful. And all the other words that are outside my vocabulary."

"His playing was quite inspiring, yes."

"Clear notes. Unwavering pitch. Fast trills. Good sense of improvisation. A bit too emotional on the tempo, but his interpretation was not exactly classical, so I couldn't complain."

A short silence ensued as I tried to recall back into full clarity the sound of his violin, the tenor of his voice, and his thin, bony arms, while Murata was staring off into the distance. The fake Muse. Well, fake or not, a guy or a girl, violent or not, he was indeed beautiful. He was like fire, there was beauty in its destructive quality, allure within its seductively dangerous flickers.

"What Muse?"

Murata's question caught me completely off-guard; therefore, I threw him a confused look and asked back, "Huh?"

That same glint. The same glint in his eyes whenever Murata thought up a plan. I tried my best to act nonchalant. "Shibuya, you were muttering the word Muse over and over again just now."

"Oh…." I knew my face would give a ghost a run for its paleness. "Eh, it was nothing. His playing was inspiring…. As…err, inspiring as a Muse."

I thought I heard Murata mumble something, and I definitely saw him smirking secretively. However, before I could even utter a word, he had already walked away while calling towards me, "I'm going for tea. Wanna join me, Shibuya?"

My stomach was quite empty, and the offer sounded too good to be refused. So I followed him, and in no time, we had left Shin Makoku Secondhand Car Garage.

--

Lavender Café in Larkshire Village, despite its cheesy name, was surprisingly a very nice and welcoming one indeed. I immediately liked the decoration; nearly everything was made out of wood, causing the place to appear as snug and homely as possible. Potted plants and flowers added splashes of colours at the corners, and I was suddenly reminded of how my mother used to decorate our old house. I followed Murata into the café, and stopped a few feet away from him when he halted in front of the concierge desk, to talk with a girl in a long white skirt, whose green eyes instantly reminded me of the fake Muse's twin flames. But hers were much more kinder, and they seemed…less harder and piercing than Wolfram's though I could not put a finger into the reason.

The girl soon turned to me and addressed me politely, "Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the Lavender Café. May I show you to your table?"

I looked at Murata in confusion, trying to guess what I should do. "Eh, yes, please," I replied quickly, desperate to not make the girl wait. "A table for two. I am with him." With that, I gestured towards Murata, who returned my look before saying something to the girl in a lower voice.

"Gisela, he's with me. Do you think Gwendal will mind if he joins us?"

The girl stole a glance at me, and when she noticed that I noticed her look, she smiled sweetly before whispering back to Murata, "Well, I guess Gwendal will not mind. He seems quite nice."

Murata's next words were inaudible to me, but he and the girl shared a quite laughter before returning to me. I glanced around nervously, suddenly feeling quite out of place.

"Shibuya, this is Miss Gisela von Christ," Murata said, and I shook the girl's hand, subconsciously realizing what a strong grip she had. "She is the daughter of the owner of this place, Gunter von Christ."

"Hello, Miss von Christ," I said, quite awkwardly, trying to cover up the growing blush on my cheeks. She was pretty, with a good-natured smile and a tender but wilful expression. "My name is Shibuya Yuuri. I am Murata's old acquaintance."

"Please, just call me Gisela," she said, her smile widening. "I have heard from Murata that you have met my little brother earlier, yes?"

I frowned, utterly baffled by this revelation. "Who is your brother?"

"Oh, he has blonde hair and green eyes," she said, tapping her chin as if she had been trying to remember how her own brother might look like. "His name is Wolfram von Bielefeld."

"That boy is your brother?" I repeated, torn between surprise, shock, and confusion. It did explain the green eyes, but…. "You two look nothing alike!"

Her lips were already curling into a smile before I finished my sentence. "My adoptive father, Mr. von Christ, is his uncle, his mother's cousin, to be exact. I am his cousin, Mr. Shibuya, despite the lack of blood ties. About our green eyes…. Well, mine were from the parents I have never known, while his were from his mother."

I did not know what appropriate reaction would have been suitable for such condition, yet finally I decided to settle on a simple "oh". Gisela did not seem to be troubled at all by my lack of response; instead, she handed me a menu, regaining her professional attitude.

"Please follow me, Mr. Shibuya, Murata."

We followed her long, graceful steps through tables and chairs, finally arriving at the largest table of all, one that could easily afford ten people at once. The table was located at the centre of the café, at the very front of an upraised section of the floor. It was a stage of some sort, with a microphone and a shiny black, baby grand piano standing on it.

I asked Gisela, "Uh, is there going to be a show?"

Once again, she gave me her trademark smile and said, "Today is Lavender Café's third year anniversary. Our whole family are going to entertain the diners tonight. You should come, Mr. Shibuya. Murata is going to come too, aren't you, Murata?"

I glanced at Murata, only to find him giving a cheerful, affirmative nod. Quickly turning back my attention to Gisela, I piped up my curiosity, "So…what instrument do you play, Gisela?"

"It's better to be left as a surprise," she replied lightly, winking in a way that I found extremely cute. I wondered how old she was, secretly also pondering whether she was available or not. Heck, ever since I became a pop star, I had been too busy to notice girls. I would definitely not miss a chance in Larkshire also!

An extremely painful pinch from Murata dragged me back into the reality, and I gave a strangled yelp. Thankfully, Gisela was already walking away and she appeared to not hear me. "Don't even think about it, Shibuya," Murata whispered, the tone light and friendly, although the threat, despite its subtlety, was as audible as fresh bread was edible. "I know that look on your face. Oh no, innocent puppy looks are too late, so save them for yourself. You don't want to date her; believe me."

"What?" I groaned immediately, receiving another pinch as a warning to low my voice down. In a whisper, I quickly argued, "Why? I mean, if she's available…."

With what I interpreted as sympathy, Murata gripped my shoulder and whispered. "Take it from somebody who knows her and her family, Shibuya."

I folded my arms across my chest in indignation. "Murata, if you like her, it's okay. I won't try to grab your fish from you."

Murata gritted his teeth, before grounding them impatiently. I tried to back away from him on my seat. "Shibuya, I do not like Gisela. Haven't you been listening?"

"So why are you so upset?" I retorted. "You can't foresee the future!"

His reply was a curt sentence, "Let's just say that personal experience is the best teacher."

"I don't get it."

He gave me a mocking look. "I wonder why I am not surprised." Pulling my head closer, he whispered, "A year ago, I tried to date her too."

Well, that was surprising. Murata was not one who would date girls; he preferred to flirt and simply play along with them. I let out a silent "oh". Gisela had to be a truly wonderful girl for Murata to be ready to sacrifice his 'available' status for her.

"What happened?" I whispered back, my curiosity evoked.

He grimaced. "I had to go through interviews with all the members of her family."

If I had been drinking, I would have choked to death. "Ooh," I gasped, feeling the blood escaping the area of my head. Suddenly I pitied Murata for even trying. "Thanks for stopping me, then."

"It's called solidarity," Murata replied in a matter-of-fact way I recognized coming from his childhood. He took off his spectacles and polished them slowly. "When it comes to girls, men co-exist in two ways: giving each other advices or giving each other punches."

"Wisely said," I said solemnly. Then I looked up, finding Gisela walking back to us, sashaying her way towards our table. She was beautiful; even I knew that. Too bad her family was so intimidating.

"So," she said, stopping in front of us, smiling in that pleasant, heart-warming way of hers, "are you ready to order?"

"I'd like a cup of Earl Grey, please," Murata replied, returning her smile with one of his own. I had to admit that his smile gave me a different effect from Gisela's. He turned to me, keeping the smile plastered to his face. "What about you, Shibuya?"

I fumbled with the menu, picking up the first food I saw. "Uh…. Blueberry cheesecake and camomile, please." Maybe a good, strong cup of camomile would take my mind away from Miss von Christ's vivid green eyes.

She took the menu from my hands, giving me a quick chance of her slender white fingers, smooth palm, and neat fingernails. Suddenly, the image of a very different hand entered my brain: long fingers, cut and blackened by machines and oil; calloused palm, appearing oily and dirty; and grease-invaded fingernails. I imagined that hand pressing on the fingerboard of a violin, and was surprised by how easily I could picture it. Unsuitable, yes; but mesmerizing in a way I had never witnessed before. There was strength beneath that hand, an allure beneath the ruined exterior. Just like what my mother always said: "A hand that creates music is a strong but tender hand."

But I doubted such a terrible hand would own such a person beneath it. That hand was too ruined, too corrupted, too wrapped up in the hardships of daily life. That hand would never reach the spot in music that I always called as a sanctuary, because its mind was too full of earthly matters. The chance was too slim, and my manager always told me that slim chances were not to be taken, but to be daydreamed. So there I was, sitting in a café, daydreaming about a Muse that would never be a Muse.

--

Murata and I returned to Lavender Café at 07.30 p.m., only to find the small, snug place overly crowded by guests of all ages and races. I guessed that the whole village were there, queuing to get a spot in the café (thankfully Murata had placed extra caution by forcing me to wear a baseball cap to avoid any stray fans). I was about to queue with them when Murata pulled my hand and dragged me straight to the concierge, while greeting and smiling to people he recognized along the way.

A bald young man was standing as concierge instead of Gisela. The small plate on his shirt told me that his name was Dacascos. Murata approached him, keeping his smile polite and detached. "Good evening, Dacascos," he said, his tone low and rather matured. He gestured at me. "Today I bring a new friend. I'd love to queue, but he's a little…well known. May we enter first?"

Dacascos peered at me curiously, and whispered to Murata, "Well, I don't recognize him, sir. Is he really of importance? We have a long queue tonight…."

Murata sighed in exasperation, while I squirmed nervously on my feet, wishing that we could just queue like everybody else. "Believe me, Dacascos," Murata said, his eyes serious. Before Dacascos could utter another word, he had pushed past him and pulled me through tables and diners, towards the large table we sat on the afternoon. The table was occupied, though, with a brown-haired man looking in his early twenties and an auburn-haired girl that was no older than twelve or thirteen.

Without any hesitation, Murata took a seat right next to the man, signalling me to sit next to him. I took my seat in a rather awkward fashion, pulling my cap lower over my face.

"Good evening, Murata," the man greeted pleasantly, and I found him as friendly looking as the sweet Gisela. "Who is your friend?"

Murata smiled at him, before gesturing at me. "Weller, meet Shibuya Yuuri. Shibuya, this is Conrart Weller, one of Gisela's cousins."

Mr. Weller's expression did not change even as he shook my hand, retaining his mild smile. "Nice to meet you, sir," I said, attempting to be polite, meanwhile wondering whether Murata had exaggerated Gisela's family's intimidation rate or not.

"Please, just call me Conrad," the man chuckled. He then introduced the girl to me before I could reply to his request. "This is Greta."

I shook the little girl's hand. She smiled at me, causing her amber orbs to sparkle. "Hello, Greta," I said, smiling to her too.

"Hello, Mr. Shibuya," she replied, her smile unwavering. "I often watch your concerts on the telly."

I blushed, not expecting for her to know me. She seemed to be so good-natured, unlike my other fans. And she barely reacted towards me. "Do you like it?" I questioned, while Murata snickered behind me.

"I like most of your songs," she replied sweetly. "When are you going to release your new album, Mr. Shibuya?"

"Ah, just Yuuri, please," I quickly interjected. "Well, it's supposed to be out in the next two months."

The girl turned to Conrad, whispering in a manner that was not supposed to be heard by me. But I could not help it; her whisper was so loud. "That's so long!" she said, and I knew that she was disappointed.

Conrad quickly pulled her closer, whispering assurances and sweet words to her, just like my mother often did when she was still alive. I glanced at Murata, hoping for advice. Instead, he simply shrugged and leaned back on his seat, as if watching what I would do next.

Cursing Murata under my breath, I quickly thought up an idea. Since my manager always said how a star could never disappoint his fans, maybe he would not mind about what I was going to do next. "Greta," I called her softly, giving her my best smile, "would you like to hear the songs in the new album? They haven't been recorded yet, but you can come to Murata's house and I can play the songs on my guitar for you. Would you like that? We can do it tonight."

She was practically bursting with excitement by the time I finished my sentence, and a glance to Murata confirmed that my actions had been correct. "Wow! Really? Are you sure?" When I nodded, she turned to Conrad and grabbed his arm closer, causing the man to chuckle and pat her head affectionately. "Can I go, Conrad? Please?"

Her puppy look was enough to melt a frozen heart made of steel, and Conrad seemed to be a mild-mannered man that would never refuse buying candies for little children. To say that I was surprised by his next words was the worst understatement of the century.

"Now, Greta," he said softly. "Remember the rules? No visiting after seven. Perhaps tomorrow."

Greta pouted, and then turned her little head to me. "Are you free tomorrow, Yuuri?" she asked, and I silently wished to have a child like her when I was older.

I smiled. "Yeah. Of course. I am taking a holiday." Murata sniggered, but I chose to ignore him and asked him instead, "Would you mind, Murata?"

He shrugged, signing that he wouldn't. "Conrad, how can I refuse a lady?" he joked, punching the bigger man lightly on the arm. "My house lacks a feminine touch. Greta will always be welcome in my house."

Greta positively glowed.

--

By eight o'clock, Murata was playing hangman on a piece of paper with Greta while I was chatting with Conrad. He was, just what I expected, a good man with a polite conversational style and a smile that most girls would die for. I thought he would be a hit whenever he changed career to entertainment. He only had two faults: his extremely dry jokes (luckily I was not eating anything by the time he told me one; I might have died by choking myself in order to get out of his jokes) and his habit to call people with a Mr. and a surname.

"I have a brother," I said, meanwhile trying to remember Shori's face. Along my conversation with Conrad, we had somehow tapped into the family topic. "He lives in Ireland. I don't really know him, though. We used to be close, but he got more and more protective as I got older. It was frustrating."

Conrad chuckled, his eyes occasionally checking out on Greta. "I have two brothers," he told me, his voice pleasant and gentle. I would not mind if he were my brother. "I'm the middle child."

I looked around, gazing at the crowd in the café. Most of them had ordered and were enjoying dinner. "Whom are we waiting?" I piped up, getting hungrier with every second.

Conrad smiled, his hand reaching out to smooth down a crease on Greta's blouse. The girl glanced at him, flashing a wonderful smile that I found adorable. "Well, we're waiting for Gwendal von Voltaire, my brother. He is the eldest of the three of us," he replied, watching Murata beat Greta for the umpteenth time in hangman. "And also Gisela's father. Have you heard of him? His name is Gunter von Christ and he is the owner of this café. He's out host today."

"What kind of show will it be?" I asked, eyeing the stage curiously.

Conrad's smile turned secretive, as if he knew something I didn't. "Music," he replied. "Gunter, Gisela, my brothers, and the library owner around the corner, a lady named Anissina von Khrennikof, are family. We all share the same trait: we like music. Even Gisela like music, despite her adopted status." He gestured at the grand piano on the stage. "I play the piano."

"You are all going to perform?" I exclaimed, my spirit suddenly lifted. "Oh, wow! That's great. Classic? Pop?"

"I only do jazz and pop," Conrad said, chuckling warmly as Greta finally received her first victory. "Gwendal plays the cello. Wolfram, my youngest brother, plays violin and piano. Both of them gravitate towards classical music."

Upon hearing the last name, I practically froze. Wolfram. Violin. The two words connected themselves and I gave a dog-like strangled yelp. Conrad threw me a baffled and worried look, but I ignored him to scream-whisper, "Your brother…is Wolfram von Bield?"

"Bielefeld," he corrected hesitantly, but I could not care less. "Yes, he is. Are you okay, Yuuri?"

I would have gladly screamed, "No, I'm not!" had Murata not dragged me off my chair to the toilet, exclaiming to Conrad, "Don't worry about him. I think the stress of work have finally gotten him. I'll take him to the toilet for a minute." Two men approached our table, and Murata waved cheerily at them. "Von Voltaire! Von Christ! I'll join the two of you soon!"

Once we were safe in the confines of the men's restroom, I immediately cornered Murata and silent-screamed for two good seconds, which I deserved, before screaming for real, "That blonde is his brother?"

The spectacles replied, "Actually, half brother. The three brothers are all half brothers. They have the same mother and different fathers."

I took a deep breath. "OK. Half brother. Why didn't you tell me they were related, for God's sake?"

Murata shrugged, his face a picture of innocent confusion. "Well, I think you're just overreacting, really. So Weller is von Bielefeld's half brother. Big deal. What will that fact change?"

Murata's words hit home, and the panic train in my head abruptly halted. "Because von Bielefeld is a fake Muse?" I retorted, although I was clever enough to detect the weakness in those words and the instinctive question mark I placed on the end of that supposed-to-be retort.

My words seemed to attract Murata immediately. "A Muse," he said slowly, and suddenly imagined him playing a song on the piano outside in lento. "So you think of him as Muse. Well, that's understandable, Shibuya."

A silence. I didn't dare to break it. I dreaded what Murata would ask next.

He took off his spectacles, and I could see his eyes clearly, the dark colour expressive and secretive in the same time beneath the dim light of the restroom. "Why fake, Shibuya?" he questioned, pronouncing every syllable, causing me to shudder and think of that hand and its mangled appearance.

"He is not a real Muse," I said hotly. "Haven't you seen his hands? Those hands don't belong to a person who really belongs to music, Murata. He's too wrapped in reality to be purely musical. You said it yourself. People who are blanketed in reality will never be true artists. He can't be a Muse."

"You think him as a fake because of his hands," Murata repeated, and I glared at him indignantly, sending the message, "So what?" He began to pace in front of the row of sinks, before finally saying, "What explanation have you got for his Salute d'Amour?"

"The wind was probably playing tricks with my ears," I mumbled, though I was not entirely sure. The wind was whispering, yes; but it was merely enhancing, never tweaking the music.

Suddenly, the room outside the restroom broke in applause, and an elderly man walked inside the restroom, nodding politely to Murata, who nodded back somewhat a little stiffly. As soon as the man was gone, Murata pulled me out of the restroom and into the café, me pouting and sending death glares to whomever we passed. The café's light was dimmed, and a spotlight was illuminating a red-haired woman in a maroon dress, standing confidently on a stage with a microphone in her hand.

As we arrived on our table, I noticed the two men Murata had addressed earlier and Gisela had arrived. Their eyes were trained to the stage, and I managed to sit down next to Murata right when the woman on the stage announced, "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I hope you will enjoy the opening to our show tonight: an acoustical piece by Wolfram von Bielefeld, 'Stand'!"

Another applause, and I glanced at Murata in dismay, only to find him with his eyes still fixed on the stage. I swallowed my inner turmoil and looked at the stage too. Wolfram was stepping onto the platform, not smiling, clad in an army green jacket and cargo pants. He bowed to the audiences, and I thought he saw me right as he raised his head, because his green eyes flared, causing me to remember our last and first encounter.

He walked to the piano, and the light followed him. He looked even thinner with the light shining on him; his neck appeared to be so thin that it was effeminate; his figure was so slim and fragile that one feared he would break apart anytime. But the light caused his blonde hair to turn golden, and I thought it reminded me of the honey-coloured sunlight, the kind you received when you opened the window for the first time every morning. And the green colour of his eyes was not burning, but flaring, the light within them dancing as if they were alive.

And even though he was a guy, even though he was rude and violent, I could not describe him as anything else but beautiful. Those dark green eyes, alive and dancing with emotions. I needed all restraint I possessed in order to stop myself from getting a piece of paper and instantly immortalize Wolfram into notes, into a melody I knew would have been fitting for him. A minor. I had been thinking of that scale ever since I met him, ever since I heard his sound.

Who knew how much emotion those bony joints hid from the world? Wolfram was explosive, violent, yet there was something intriguing beneath all those unnecessary flames. I would have gladly found out, but he was just a car mechanic, not a violinist at all. He was someone not even supposed to belong to the irrational, aesthetical field of music. He was a car mechanic, a simpleton whose life was directed towards setting food on the table.

He was not the person I expected him to be when I heard him play that wretched Salute d'Amour.

My Muse would never be him.

He set the piano bench before he sat on it. Good. Most amateurs wouldn't bother with it, causing discomforts upon playing.

As he sat down on the bench, I noticed how pale his skin was compared to the black piano. But his shoulder was set, and his posture was straight. And I realized that he knew his things. That he was not even nervous.

Then his hands rested lightly upon the keys, and I nearly gasped. The light brought out the worst of them, and I closed my eyes to chase away the horrible picture. A musician with dirty, work-mangled hands! But nobody reacted, nobody gasped, nobody closed his or her eyes. And I noticed that their eyes were not even really seeing him. Every person in the café was waiting for his sound, not for his appearance. They were waiting for the sound that had inspired me this very morning.

Then I knew that he was their Muse.

And his black fingers pressed the white keys.

XXX

I apologize for the late update. My father took me for a trip yesterday, so I had no time to post this. I think this chapter didn't really come out as I would like it to be. Critics are extremely welcomed. The teaser below is extremely short, but that's the only thing I can think of.

XXX

_Teaser:_

-4-

_Forte_

_Those green flames were haughty as he stared at Yuuri in what the latter could only describe as mocking. "Mr. Shibuya," Wolfram whispered, his words slurred in a seductive drawl, his stare as hard as stone, "I am not interested in girls. I am gay."_

_XXX_

_Scarlet_


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